A better morning smoke I cannot fathom
The rooster upon your tin calls me forth
Bright Virginias compose your intoxicating plume
By the tin or in bulk, there is no question of your worth

My pipe fancies not for notoriety
While Keats had himself a Grecian Urn
I am but a meager sot weed
But faithfully in my bowl you burn

With a name like Dunhill it has to be good
Or perhaps that slogan belongs to Smuckers
Nonetheless you burn evenly and always stay lit
Especially when compared to the catalogue of generic…

In the illustrious paraphrased words of Toby Kieth
The country-folk-blugrass-pop-americana king
“Early Morning Pipe, I light you up- it’s time to party!”
My tongue, my nostrils, and my lungs sing

If the world were to regress
Until I had but my soul to sell
Happily I would part with my spirit
To rise and still your room-note smell

You are the quintessential English blend
With the perfect injection of Latakia
Upon the retrohale you project your nuances
Who the hell can rhyme with Latakia?

With so many blends to readily explore
I refuse to fill my pipe with tongue biting crap
It is you, and you alone I desire to puff
Until the sun has set and I require a Nightcap.